


Flight to Minsk

by CaffieneKitty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Missing Scene, Season/Series 01, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffieneKitty/pseuds/CaffieneKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  <i>So, Sherlock had to fly to Minsk. And you know he won't take a private jet from Mycroft. So, how does he behave on a commercial flight? Cuz you also know he can't sit still for more than 2 seconds.</i></p><p>Not quite the prompt, but this was what came to mind for Sherlock travelling in a tin can full of people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight to Minsk

**Author's Note:**

> _Originally posted on the Sherlock BBC Fic Meme August 11, 2010_

Sherlock hunches low in his coat and tries to ignore the everything going on around him, waiting for the sleep tablets to kick in.

Kick, small child kicking seatback, boy, four, mother shrill, father absent.

"Would you like-"

"No," he snaps at the air hostess whose heels have red mud on them as she walks away, last stopover in a place with high iron in the soil, she stepped off the plane and away, hair loosened in bun red mark above collar, ring on finger, some trite assignation-

"Wait," he calls. "Earphones."

In the endless ten minutes until she returns, the people on the aeroplane leaking junk data to the air from their mouths, their skin, their motions nearly drown him. The slight drawing down of the medication beginning to take effect arrives with the headphones. He snatches them from her hands, peels them out of the wrapper, jams the earbuds into his ears, plugs them in and switches on. 

Sound floods in until he turns the dial on the seat arm (still a dial, old plane, failure rates for jet turbines over ten years old), slightly, slightly, to between stations. The fuzz of informationless noise washes out the voices-motion-chattering-nattering occupants of the plane, and Sherlock stares at the seatback in front of him, collar pulled up like horse-blinders.

Cotton, royal blue, grey stripes, faded, thread-count...

The pills take him under and he sleeps his way to Minsk.


End file.
